Living Cavern -- Starmount(#38RDJLM)
A huge, vaulted dome of rock arches overhead, pocked in places with outcroppings and little holes where firelizards are constantly squabbling and eating various things. The floor of the cavern has been smoothed out by years of feet walking over it, polished to a shine except for the scuffs of table legs. The rough wooden tables are scattered around the room, chairs distributed almost as randomly. Dishes cover the tables, filled with all kinds of foods kept ready for hungry riders and weyrfolk, with firelizards swooping and playing amoung them, grabbing snacks as they will.
 A wide tunnel to the east leads out to the bowl, while several much smaller tunnels lead off in various directions. One dark tunnel, sloping downward, leads to the lower cavern complex for residents. Another, judging from the delicious smells coming from it, can only lead to the kitchen. The last, a steeply upward-sloping tunnel, bears a small iconograph beside it denoting the record hall.

You see:
 C'drel, standing near the door.
 Ramaki, standing near the door.

C'drel takes a few more mouthfuls of the stew, head tilted as he watches Ramaki work for a short time. "Oh, well, that's okay. I don't need to avoid you then," he comments amusedly, adding in explaination, "I'm due for some new clothes. Not my favourite thing, you see." He emphasises this with wave of fork, gaze flickering about the caverns again, "Listen -- you haven't seen a short, pretty greenrider around here, have you?"

Puokano stomps in from the lower caverns, peering around the room as he enters; Ramaki is spied, and the youth hails her with a small wave and calls, "Maki! Do you know how horrible that aunt of yours is? You'll never believe what she tried to make me do today." A barely civil nod is directed towards the other as he strides over.

Shaking head, Ramaki brushes back strands of hair as a sour look is sent towards Puokano, responding verbally with: "I've seen no riders of greens in the caverns since I sat to work upon this, Cam.." Pause. "Puokano, get off your high runner, why don't you? She only let you /tag along/ out of the goodness of her heart. Be nice, or there'll be no good left in it at all, and you'll get sent home!"

C'drel is seated at a table with Ramaki, making good with an early morning meal. Faint grin twitches at his lips at Puokano's words, and he lifts fork in return, while continuing with his meal. "Cam," he offers, in introduction, before answering Ramaki, "Oh, well. I was hoping she'd be in here.. she headed down for a meal earlier, apparently."

"Good!" Puokano declares. "I hate this weather -- it's /cold./" He shudders. "I can't wait to get back to Boll." Although, knowing his father, he'll probably refuse to let his son return home. "And I do not 'tag along.' " He sniffs -- "Really. What do you take me for? Some sort of weyrbrat?" Another nod is given to C'drel, and he takes a deep breath before rattling out, "Puokano, Lord Boll's fourth son, Kaiga's fosterling..oh, and her --" he jerks a thumb towards Ramaki "-- fosterbrother." He grimaces. "I don't know why I had to ever be fostered up here, anyways."

Exasperated, Ramaki carefully puts her needle into a fold of the almost completely shirt, folding the fabric into a neat shape before putting it into her basket. "Puo, my aunt's name is /Kaigi/. With an I. And you got fostered up here because your father couldn't stand you any more, and you well know it." An apologetic look is offered to C'drel, and she shrugs. "My parents told the Lord Holder that he could send that along with me to be fostered here. It's not my fault he exists, honest."

"I'll agree with you there -- it's sharding cold. And it only gets worse, unfortunately," C'drel offers with half grimace, not too much a fan of cold weather either, to judge by expression. A faint pause at Puokano's introduction, then, "Ah--" softly, as if in understanding. "Well met." Another gesture of fork, as he answers Ramaki with a smile, "Bloods are often fostered to Weyrs these days, it seems."

Puokano carelessly shrugs shoulders before languidly plopping into a nearby seat. "Kaigi. Kaiga. Whatever. Does it matter?" He levels a scathing look at Ramaki. "My father thinks I'm wonderful. I'm going to go back soon and be an Assistant Steward until he dies." Attention slides to C'drel, then, and the Bollian blanches. "When? I'll have to leave before then."

"It does matter. Her name is 'Kaigi'." Ramaki bristles, turning her back on her fosterbrother to face C'drel. "I do hope you will excuse his behavior. He's been like that ever since I met him when he got brought over to Weaverhall to get clothing, when he was five. You can poke him if he gets too snobby, it usually deflates his ego quite nicely for a little bit."

C'drel taps fork thoughtfully against his bowl a moment. "Not more than seven or eight sevendays, perhaps. Snow'll start coming in. If you think it's bad now--" he shudders expressively. Surely he's not enjoying that a little /too/ much? Head nods equably at Ramaki, "Oh, no need to apologize on your foster brother's account. I'm not much for poking myself, but I'll keep that in mind," he quirks faint grin.

It does not. Puokano glares again at Ramaki's back before coolly informing, "I am not a snob." He's worse. Gaze shifts back to C'drel, then, and eyes widen. "Snow. Snow. Ugh. I hate snow. I hate cold. I like sun -- I was fostered in Ista, you know, and it's nearly as sunny there as it is in Boll."

"Drifts of it." C'drel adds, for good measure. "Blizzards too. Often snowed in for days at a time."

Puokano would cry - but no. That would make him look like a sissy. "I'm going home!"

Ramaki snakes a hand out to jab towards Puokano's side, before lighting up at the idea of /snow/. "Really? That sounds fun. I heard from a passing rider, once, that you can actually carve things out of the snow?.. It sounded like it must've been lovely." And Puo is leaving? "Bye Puo! Don't forget to pack your things! I'll tell my aunt that you couldn't stand it here and hated her, so I'm sure she'll send a nasty letter to your father."

C'drel raises eyebrow at Puokano, affecting confusion, "But I thought you only just arrived--" he grins at Ramaki, "I've heard much the same. Haven't had a chance to do so myself, though. Matrith's a big fan of snow, though. A little too cold for me."

"Ew, Maki. Why would you ever want to do something like that?" Puokano queries while he swats at her hand. Despite his confidence regarding just how highly his father looks upon him, he uncertainly eyes his fostersister. "She wouldn't do that. Would she?"

Wide blue eyes exude innocence and Ramaki postulates: "I don't know. Perhaps, most likely since she told me when she was assigning my work that she isn't pleased with your behavior.." Their, uhm, companion -- What his job is -- gets eyed, and she askes. "Aren't you from around here?.."

C'drel hesitates, for a few moments, before answering, "Not exactly. I'm from down south, myself. Well, east originally, if you want to get technical." Nice and vague.

Puokano looks shocked. "How could she not be pleased with my behavior? I'm a son of a Lord - and everyone knows what kind of manners we have." He rolls his eyes. "What does Kaiga -- er, Kaigi -- know about appropriate duties for someone of my stature, anyways?"

"She knows because she's your fostermother and your father gave her permission to assign you to mixing the nasty base for that lovely blue dye if she wants to." Ramaki looks happy, unfolding the shirt she was working on to finish stitching the final tear. "So, be good.. East? What's in the east?.. At least, relevant to here."

C'drel half glances at Puokano, agreeing, "Aye, everyone's well aware of Blooded manners." That could have any kind of meaning, really. "East? Oh, most everything. Benden, Bitra, all those. Of course, techincally it's south east, but you know. I was a trader originally, see, then winecrafter at Benden."

"It's only temporary," Puokano mutters. "Ugh. Dyes. They stain things. Like hands." Duh, Puo. "I feel bad for Weavers, you know," he informs. "Their hands -- and faces and feet and hair -- get stained all sorts of ugly colors." He considers. "So do Healers. Redwort. Disgusting stuff." He does, however, award C'drel a pleased smile. "I knew it." He shoots a haughty glance at the girl. "See?"

"They stain hide, too," C'drel adds, tone momentarily amused as he pushes away empty bowl, setting fork down neatly beside. Sideways glance catches that haughty look, and Cam adds after a moment, "Everyone quite well knows that Bloods -- especially sons of Holders -- have quite an arrogant manner about them. We had enough of them at Azov to know. Too well aware of themselves, they were," he reaches for the mug sipping casually as if still discussing the weather.

"That's..that's..that's not true," Puokano sputters indignantly. "Hmph. I'm not at all arrogant. Never have been. Neither's any of my brothers." Well..maybe part of that information is true.

C'drel nods agreeably a moment, before adding, "But you're too good to accept the kind hospitality of Master Weaver Kaigi. Most crafters wouldn't take on a fosterage unless they were to be trained as apprentices."

Puokano doesn't mention that it was probably the only person that would take him on. "No, no. I just think I could've gotten a better fosterage someplace..warm." He quirks a smile that appears more like a smirk. Some things are habits, you know. "And, besides, I'd just come back from one at Ista."

C'drel stares at Puokano for a long moment, thoughtfully. "As someone who, by your own words, will become an assistant steward one day, you'll need to learn to be able to appreciate different climates and the benefits therein. Do you think that if you turned down fosterage both to the Weavercraft and Starmount Weyr that either might look kindly on you later to trade with should you require their services?"

"Oh, I appreciate them," Puokano airly replies, "but I don't think I need to live in all of them." He manages what he'd consider a charming smile. "Ah, I haven't turned them down, have I? After all, I /am/ here." Although against his will. "I don't see why I needed another fostering, anyways."

C'drel points out, "Five minutes ago you couldn't wait to leave, unless I misremembered. Always possible, of course." Another of those thoughtful looks is tipped towards Puokano, "That only proves my point, you realize. You have an opportunity most people would jump at -- to see more of Pern, to visit places most people could only imagine going to. To meet all sorts of different people -- and you consider it little more than an inconvinence. Oh, no. Blooded Holders have no arrogance, at all." It's funny, though, that Cam's voice never rises above a chatty tone, as he sips casually from his mug.

Puokano cheerily intones, "I still can't wait to leave. I've been here, I've seen it -- but I really can't stand the climate, you know, and I think perhaps my father can arrange to foster me at another Weyr, if he really wants to. Say, Igen." Arrogant? Him? /Never./

"You've been here-- how long? A few days? Of course you're not used to the climate." C'drel snorts, amusedly, "It takes /sevendays/.. maybe even longer." Now why is he grimacing like that? "Igen, hmm? Maybe Igen is a better place for you, after all."

Puokano looks horrified. "Stay here for /sevendays/?! I'd probably catch some rare illness that we never hear about down where it's warm and die." Dear, dear. Can't have members of Blood dying off, can we? "Yes! Igen!" He latches onto that idea. "Igen would be so much better. Although I'm not so sure about their..err..customs." He sneaks a glance at the rider. "Not that I'm so sure about the customs up here, either."

C'drel bobs his head quickly -- too quickly? -- "Igen would be perfect for you. That warm climate you like. And I'm sure they'd welcome you with open arms and all the respect due your station." Surely he's not snickering into his klah mug?

Oh no. No one would /dare/ snicker at Puokano. Would they? "Yes, yes. I'll send a letter off to my father right away." He pauses, then makes sure to clarify, "He's Lord Boll." Just in case C'drel didn't catch that part.

Of course not. Certainly not C'drel, whose almost undoubtly been well versed -- and well practised -- in diplomacy at some point. "Why don't you," Cam agrees, with a nod, "A fine idea. I can offer you the use of my 'lizard even, if you'd like," oh so generous, he is. "We know Boll fairly enough -- enough that he can find--" surely he doesn't momentarily have to cover a grin? "--the Lord Boll."

"Oh? You've been to Boll?" Thoughtful, Puokano leans forward in his chair a bit. "It's the most wonderful spot on Pern," he gushes. "And I'd be so obliged." Hey, maybe C'drel'll even get a commendation for his willingness to help.

C'drel, as it happens, seems all /too/ willing. "Mmhmm," he agrees, "It behooves a We-- a person to know the various points of Pern, is all. It is nice, of course. Not as warm as Azov, mind. Well, now, if you write up a message, I can even have Vrendol deliver it now. It shouldn't be more than early evening there, by now."

"Yes, well, let me just find some hide and charcoal and all -- " Puokano peers around. "If they even /have/ that up here, that is."

"I'm sure they do," C'drel offers genially, leaning back in his chair slightly. "Maybe one of the drudges knows, or something."

Puokano probably looks even more arrogant as he claps hands for a drudge, regally sitting upright in his chair. When none appear, he frowns blackly. "What? Doesn't this Weyr even have properly trained drudges?"

C'drel must really be struggling not to laugh outright. "They're busy setting up for lunch, most likely. You have to find one, you know. They don't come running." Now let's see how well /that/ one goes down.

"They don't?" Puokano's expression is one of absolute horror. "What's wrong with them? Are they deaf? Dumb? Stuck in caves as they slobber away?"

"They /do/ have work to do, you know." If, at any time, C'drel's tone is mildly disapproving, now is it. "And they don't come running for a fosterling -- well, now, you're not even that, are you? If you're to leave, shortly, that is. Boll isn't even beholden to Starmount."

"Why don't they?" Puokano? Whining? Never. He sniffs. "I am too a fosterling. Just not for long." Reluctantly, he clambers to his feet. "So - I'm really going to go look for one?" Distaste colors his features and he hopefully asks, "Would someone like to get one for me? Please?"

C'drel all too convinently has klah mug in hand. "I would, but I don't want my klah getting cold," oh-so truthfully, he offers. "It's not like they'd be hard to find.. most are probably in the kitchens, or setting out things for lunch." So helpful, isn't he?

Puokano scowls. "But..but..they cut things up in the kitchen," he complains. "Bloody things. Bloody things that stain."

C'drel can't help it this time -- /that/ comment sets off a brief snicker, which turns into a cough. "So they do."

Puokano eyes the kitchen, until the snicker catches his attention. He /heard/ that. "Hey. You're laughing at me." Disapproving frown graces his graceless features. "That's not nice."

C'drel answers, expression contrite -- and serious, "No, no. I wouldn't laugh at a Blooded Holder." At least, not openly. "I've a cold, that's all. You know, it's the weather." He sniffs for good measure.

"Oh, yes." Puokano nods understandingly. "Yes. This weather's horrible, isn't it?" He brightens, idea setting in. "Why don't you request a transfer?" he suggests. "To someplace..warm." The matter of searching for a drudge is conveniently forgotten. What would someone say if they saw a member of the Blood hunting for a drudge, after all?

Phew, that was a close one. Though-- "A transfer?" C'drel's eyebrows shoot up. "Why, as it happens, I just did ask for a transfer just recently." Of course, he doesn't offer that the transfer's /to/ here, and not from here, but there you go.

Puokano immediately assumes the opposite, of course. "Really? I congratulate you, then. You've got enough sense to get away from such a horrible place such as this - which is more than I can say for those who actually /like/ living here." A glance is shot towards Ramaki, who apparently enjoys Cold Things such as snow-sculptures. The horror. And she was supposed to be a loyal Bollian, too.

Ramaki is ignoring Puokano and C'drel, working on finishing a rough skirt-shaped thing. Go away.

"Such a horrible place," C'drel agrees, mildly. It's funny that he doesn't offer the details, but then again -- maybe he's enjoying hearing Puokano too much. "Some don't have a choice, really."

"Why?" Puokano demands, clueless in the ways of Weyrlife and obviously pretending he knows more than he does. "Oh, I see. Because their..ahh..Wingleaders-- " That /is/ what they're called, right? "-- are so ruthless that they don't want their riders leaving?" Weyrs are all on power-trips, see. Puo proves to be tactful for the first time and manages to leave that bit out.

C'drel's brow furrows in puzzlement. "How many Wingleaders have you met? No, no. I mean, many people Impress at a place, and find it becomes their home, regardless of prior feelings. Or so I've observed."

"Well, that's dumb." Puokano sniffs. "Why would Impression make any difference? I mean, if /I/ Impressed, I certainly wouldn't stay in such an awful place as this." A short bark of laughter attests to his thoughts on his own Impression: never in a million Turns. "I don't know why people want to be stuck with a big lump, anyways." Oh dear. Puo? Don't insult dragonriders to their faces. It's generally a bad thing.

Of course, it's not like C'drel's said anything to indicate that he's a dragonrider, and certainly he's not wearing the knot. "It just seems to be what happens, is all. Dragons can be very.." he pauses, and glances away a moment, ".. stubborn." An eyebrow rises at that comment, and he asks mildly, "Big lump?"
No, Puo got lucky on that one. "Err, yes. Dragons." Look. He even used their proper names. There's hope for him yet. "But they're just big firelizards - and /they/ aren't stubborn. Just annoying. But they obey."

C'drel gives a short back of laughter, eyes shining with amusement. "Oh, you've got it all wrong. Dragons don't obey. They /tell/. And certainly, they'd object to being called big firelizards -- I wouldn't go around saying that, if you're to live in a Weyr." That wasn't mild emphasis on the word 'live'? No, couldn't be.

"Oh, but I'm not," Puokano is quick to inform. "I'm just visiting. I'll be gone before you know it. Just wait." He shrugs. "I don't see why riders can't make their dragons obey. That's how it always works." Does it? "Riders say: 'Go fight Thread!' and they go."

<*Matrith*> Privately, Matrith's tone is well -- not /quite/ as mild as C'drel's is. Startling mixtures of brilliant, blood red flare on the background of inky black, containing a hint of amusement but more of annoyance. << I fight Thread because it is my duty. We work together, Cam and I, but I do not /always/ do what he tells me. >> His voice, eerily similar to C'drel's, could well be mistaken for the human's.

"But you're headed to Igen, are you not?" C'drel queries, before lips quirk faintly. "Hmm. That's an interesting view. You were at Ista, you said? The Weyr? They sure didn't teach you much."

Puokano eyes C'drel thoughtfully. "You know, I've think you've got split-personalities," he offers. "Maybe you should go see a mind-healer." A quick shake of his head is the answer to Cam-number-one's question: "No, no. The Hold. Of course."

C'drel looks confused a moment, blinking mildly as eyes unfocus slightly before he grins, amused. "And I /certainly/ didn't tell him to do that, if you need any proof that dragons don't act without being told to." A sharper look at Puokano, then, "I think your father was right in sending you to a Weyr, then. Some things need.. explaining.. perhaps."

Puokano sneaks towards his fostersister who's currently ignoring him to nudge at her; in a stage-whisper, he mutters, "He's crazy! Thinks there's two of him, or something." C'drel is regarded suspiciously as the youth warily takes his seat again. "No, I think I need go back to the Hold now. Now."

Drekyn walks down from the ground weyrs tunnel.
Drekyn has arrived.

<*Matrith*> Privately, Matrith hovers there for several more moments, making his presence felt, as thrumming tones delinate echoed amusement from C'drel. They recede, shortly, leaving silence behind.

"No, I assure you," C'drel's grinning leaning back in his seat and not at all peturbed, "There's only one of me. If we were both like me, I'd probably go mad. Or he would."

Puokano jerks in his seat and tries to cover it up by shifting around. Uneasily. "I think I'm going crazy, too. It must be some sort of sickness - stay here long enough and you'll get it too!" he calls out to the latest arrival. He queries, next, "Are you a drudge? Find some charcoal and a scrap of hide for me."

Drekyn arrives from the weyr tunnel, looking rather flustered. And it's no wonder, once the eyes take in - in addition to the mussed, tangled hair - the armload of wriggling, laughing baby and the equally wriggling but not nearly so happy green firelizard it waves around. Perched on top of Drekyn's head, looking faintly offended by all the noise drifting up from below, is a little gold firelizard. Drekyn blinks at Puokano, then glances over her shoulder. "Drudge? I sent one up to clean out the weyr earlier - can't find the things anywhere, can you?" she says pleasantly enough, pointedly ignoring the orders. "Learning to read knots," she adds, in much the same tone, "would be a very good idea. New arrival?"

C'drel eyes Puokano over the rim of his mug, glancing away slightly and murmuring under his breath, "Leave him alone, loved. You're only confusing him more." A nod is given to Drekyn, from where he slouches at a table with Puokano and Ramaki, empty bowl on the table in front of him, "Morning," he greets, cheerily.

"I can read knots just fine," the haughty young man intones. "Yours just happens to be covered up by /that/." He crooks a finger at the babe. Puokano sniffs, offended. "I won't be here long. I'm the fourth son of Lord Boll and I'm going back as soon as I can find a bit of hide to write out the note."

C'drel shoots Drekyn a faintly pleading look as the man looks towards the bluerider, "/Do/ you know where the hide is?" Ah, so he /does/ have an ulterior motive in being so helpful.

"I'm sure we're all be better off for it," says Drekyn curtly, shifting her grip on the baby. "The storage caverns are off the lowers," she says, in response to C'drel's question. "And there are generally drudges in the kitchens at any time, who can at the very least summon others." As she crosses the caverns to the klah table, she gives Puokano a disapproving look. "If you know how to read knots so well, I suggest that you wait until an opportunity to /see/ those knots before ordering everyone about." Ooh. Touchy this morning, is she?

Puokano snaps back, "I /tried/ to summon a drudge, but they're not well trained, here, and they don't respond." He slouches in his chair and fixes the woman with a glare. "You don't expect /me/ to go find it myself, do you?" He laughs. "Amazing, isn't it, the disrespect they have at these Weyrs," he remarks aside to Ramaki in a conversational tone, hardly expecting a response.

C'drel nods head, relaxing. "So I told him-- weren't you going to do that, look in the kitchens? I think I distracted you," he adds to Puokano, politely. Or Matrith did. One of the two. A half glance is snaked towards Drekyn, and he offers, "Klah's hot."

Drekyn makes no comment at the mention of 'disrespect', though someone who's watching carefully (and knows, to some extent, Drekyn's moods) might catch her eyes glazing over for an instant. "Klah? Oh, yes. Thanks." She blinks at the pot for a moment or two in a rather distracted fashion, then pours herself a mug.

<*Zatmenith*> Privately, Zatmenith bespeaks you with << You make my rider unhappy? >> growls a voice, heavy with sleep and thick with protectiveness. << She is not a drudge. Maybe you are a drudge, if you have such bad manners. >>

"You did," Puokano responds coolly to the split-personality man. "And really --" his voice trails off as a startled expression slides into place. "Oh no," he groans, directing his comments towards Ramaki. "I'm starting to hear voices. This is bad. I want to go back to Boll. Now." He whines.

Ramaki is still finishing that skirt-garment, and ignores everything and anything going on about her. Nyeh.

"Maybe call for a healer instead of your father?" C'drel suggests, all in that polite, if amused, tone.

"I'll give you a ride," offers Drekyn, suddenly and dangerously cheerful again. "Zatmenith can be down in just a moment, and there's sure to be a nanny down in the lower caverns to watch Drat for a few moments..." Speaking of Drat, the baby strains towards the mug of klah that Drekyn holds in her free hand, giggling and making little 'buh-buh' noises.

"Boll has better healers than anywhere else, and I'm not sick," Puokano tells C'drel before giving Drekyn a wary look. "No. I don't trust you - you'd probably drop me between or something." He shudders. /Between./ "Ugh. Between. That's got to be the most horrible thing ever, next to dragons and Weyrs and cold and stinky smelly babies."

C'drel raises an eyebrow, "But you're hearing voices? How.. odd." As if he doesn't know exactly what's going on. He's had lots of practice playing the innocent, after all. It works well on those who don't know him well enough to see the tell tale signs.

"Well!" snaps Drekyn. "I certainly can't imagine anyplace worse than wherever it is /you/ came from. C'drel, would /you/ take him? He obviously doesn't trust me not to break every rule and totally disregard every lesson I ever learned - /and/ taught," she adds, aiming a sharp look towards Puokano.

C'drel glances thoughtfully at Drekyn, casually regretful. "Matrith's /far/ to comfortably curled up with his mate. Besides, I'm afraid that, with a mind of his own -- as all dragons have -- he's decided not to play transport to someone who thinks him an overgrown firelizard. Quite, quite stubborn, that dragon."

Puokano glares up at Drekyn from where he lounges. "/I/ came from Boll, where people are polite and drudges know their place and do things for people -- people of Blood, I might add. Which is more than I can say about this dump." He gestures widely. "Who knows what they teach here. Probably ways to use knives and how to make dragons eat good, respectable people."

<*Zatmenith*> Privately, Zatmenith bespeaks you with << The hatchling is /not/ smelly or stinky or... or anything like that! >> the voice rumbles. << And if you do not like the weyr, I am sure you may walk to whichever hold you like. My rider informs me that she would be happy to pay for any supplies you deserve. >>

C'drel taps fingers thoughtfully. "I'm afraid we're not terribly well trained in the last -- but we could try, if you're offering?" Too sweetly. "Is Zatmenith hungry at all, Drekyn?"

Drekyn smirks. "Oh, not for any good, respectable ones - but Zatmenith has just enough room for a nasty, snivelling, whiny one, I think. If you'd step this way?" she says sweetly, gesturing for Puokano to lead the way out into the bowl.

Puokano snaps at the air, "I am not walking around in the /cold./ I don't have to walk. People like me don't walk." He covers him mouth, then with a guilty hand -- perhaps he is going crazy, after all. It's catching. He eyes Drekyn suspiciously. "No, that's okay. I think I'll just stay here."

C'drel can't help it; a bubble of laughter escapes him. So much for earlier diplomacy. "You have drudges push you around, perhaps? I'm afraid we don't have such frivolous things in a Weyr, see. People use their own legs."

"Then again, the firelizards haven't eaten today. If it's knife-handling you'd like to see, I'm sure I could chop you into manageable bits for them. If you'll just stand away from the tables, so that you don't splash, we can begin," Drekyn says, smile turning nasty at the corners. "Although I do ask that someone cover the baby's eyes," she adds, as an afterthought.

Puokano scowls at C'drel. "No. Hmph. It's beyond you weyr-people," he elonquently intones. Drekyn is regarded with something akin to distrust -- or is that fear? -- as the youth attempts to school his expressions. "No, that's quite alright. I'm sure there's someone else you can cut up for a demonstration. Like..her!" He points at Ramaki.

Drekyn shakes her head, smiling brightly. "Oh, no - I'm afraid that just wouldn't do. I did say that Zatmenith hadn't any taste for gobbling up respectable people, and though your friend," with a polite nod towards Ramaki, "/does/ have the bad taste to go about with you, apparently, I'm sure it's out of no small amount of charity on her part." She glances towards the kitchens and - more for show than anything else, admittedly - shouts, "Would one of you fetch a basin? There may be a mess in here."

"Weyrfolk aren't good enough to learn not to walk? Mymy, the rumors are getting even worse," C'drel remarks mildly, dowing the rest of his klah. "Quite amusing, actually. Your father really /was/ correct in sending you to a Weyr, I think." Shaking his head at Drekyn's words, Cam offers, "Oh, Ramaki's his fostersister. Not her choice, you understand."

Okay, now /that's/ perking Ramaki up. "I'm /not/ Puokano's /friend/. I was sent here to be fostered to my aunt, and he tagged along!" And with that, she returns to her work. Humph.

"My mistake - I /do/ apologize," Drekyn says, setting the baby onto a handy table and reaching for her satchel. "Perhaps you'd like to help? I'm sure I have a spare knife in here someplace. Quite blunt and rusty, you understand, but it should suffice."

Puokano levels a hurt look at Ramaki. "You're /mean/!" he declares. "You won't even stand up for someone of my stature. What kind of a person are you?" Another glance is spared for Drekyn. "If you cut me up then my father -- /Lord Boll/ -- will avenge me!" he cries. "And you'll all be punished."

"I'm the kind of person who doesn't care, Puo. And besides, you're only the /fourth/ son." Ramaki smiles too-sweetly, almost maliciously, tagging a few more stitches of verdant pine upon a fine saffron wool. "And it's my aunt, so you can be nice to me, you know."

C'drel shakes his head regretfully, "I'm afraid he's right, Drekyn. Lord Boll is quite equtable -- I've had opportunity to meet him a time or two -- but I'm afraid he'd have to take exception if one of his sons were injured. Even a fourth son."

Drekyn raises a brow, pausing in her satchel-rummage to give Puokano a level glance. "Stature? You look... what, not even six foot to me, although I'm not very good at judging height. Zatmenith's hindclaw has greature stature than /you/, so don't be giving yourself airs. Ah, the basin - set it over there, please? Thank you kindly," she says, waving a pair of drudges towards the back of the caverns. Drekyn shoots an unreadable glance towards C'drel. "Ah, but you see, if this is how he raises his sons, I'm sure he'd only write it off towards the further evil doings of the evil-minded, evil dragonriders. And if it's not how he raises his sons, then he'll be all the more relieved to be rid of such a sour one. You see?" The bright smile returns.

"I noticed," Puo responds acidly to his fostersister, glaring. "And I'm important. I'm going to be an Assistant Steward. Who knows. Maybe I'll even be Lord when he dies." He glares at the others, then, adding, "And won't you be sorry then that you planned on cutting me up into bits." The drudges are spied, and the fourth son yells over: "You! You! Come here right now! This instant!"

Remembering what she muttered earlier about pokes deflating Puokano's ego, Ramaki tries to jab him in the side, weaving under a flailing arm to get that one spot ride where the ribcage ends. "Puo, would you just be /quiet/.."
The drudge gives Drekyn a panicky glance - what a place to look for sympathy! - before hurrying towards Puokano.

"I'm quite sure Lord Boll sent his fouth son here for some.. education," C'drel answers, "Quite understandable, really. Doesn't know a thing about Weyrs," he nods, as if to empahsise his point.

Drekyn glances towards C'drel, and mutters, "You've got that right - he'll know a lot more when I'm through with him." Raising her voice, she calls, "The basin awaits, m'lord fourth-son-of-a-holder. I'll call in a few more drudges to carry you there, if you feel unable to walk the great, unfathomable distance across the room."

"Get me some hide and some charcoal -- /quick./" It'll take longer for Drekyn to set up the basin and all then it'll be for the drudge to return with the requested items..won't it? Puokano just gives Maki a sniffle. "Stop it. Go abuse someone else." And he just pushes his chair a bit farther away from Drekyn in response.

<*Zatmenith*> Privately, Zatmenith bespeaks you with << You had better do as she says, >> the voice murmurs, now featuring a hint of amusement. << When she takes that tone with /me/, I know my hide's in the tannery. That's the way she puts it, at least. From what she's been saying, yours will just be in very small pieces. >>

That'd depend on how fast he writes? C'drel adds, "Should I call my firelizard, then?"

Ramaki will abuse whomever she wants to, dear Puo. And at this moment -- It's you! "I'm not abusing you. You're abusing them. Now would you just /shut up/ so I can finish my work? Kaigi wants this skirt to be done today." Sir is being /most/ rude.

The drudge scurries away, and Drekyn intercepts him on his way to the storage caverns, whispering something into his ear. The drudge gives her a startled glance, but nods and changes course towards the bowl instead. "Oh, yes, I think so," Drekyn says, in response to C'drel's question. "The rest of mine should be along in a moment." As if on cue, they begin appearing in midair and flitting up to the rafters - five, six, seven! The gold rises from the bluerider's head, but the green still clutched in the baby's arms can't escape to join the rest.

Ramaki has left.

"Yes, yes," Puokano hastily says, nodding to C'drel. He scowls, then, snapping at that voice, "Just shut /up!/ I will not be told what to do. And I don't want to get cut up." He startles at the fair that arrives, murmuring, "That's a lot. A lot. A lot, you know, Maki -- Maki?" He pales as she abandons him. "Maki!?"

"That's a shame," says Drekyn, with feeling. "And here's the 'lizards all ready to eat, too - they get testy when they're peckish, you know. Not that they would ever /dream/ of harming someone of your /stature/. If they knew what stature was, that is."

C'drel concentrates a moment, missing Drekyn's comment. A small bronze appears, flashing to Cam's shoulder. He begins soothing the 'lizard, who's peering at all the other ones around. "Better hurry," he advises Puokano, mildly.

"But..but..but my drudge isn't back," Puokano sputters. "I can't do anything until he returns with my hide, remember?" He thinks. "Maybe we can just write a message on a firelizard itself?" he suggests. Something like: HELP!

Suddenly, noise erupts outside the caverns: a great squawking and fluttering, accompanied by quite a bit of frantic shouting. It grows in volume for some time, until at last a wherry races into the caverns, towing a pair of drudges along by a long leather lead. One of the drudges has the presence of mind to grab hold of the doorway, bringing the wherry up short.

"Your hides have arrived, if I'm not mistaken," Drekyn comments drily. "And oh - there's the charcoal." Another drudge appears, hauling a half-burnt log. "I'm sure they're not the same glittery, perfumed fare you're used to, m'lord fourth-son-of-a-holder, but they're the best we heathen dragonriders can come up with on short notice."

C'drel looks at Puokano levelly. "I don't think so." The noise from the entrance garners his attention, and brow furrows as he peers over there.

Geloe walks through the door from the bowl.
Geloe has arrived.

Puokano watches, eyes saucer-round. "Oh dear. Oh dear. I can't write with that..oh no. Oh dear." At a loss, the fourth-son-of-Lord-Boll gapes for a few moments before drawing himself up, crossing arms, and glaring at Drekyn. "You," he spits out, "are sick and mentally unstable. I suggest you see a mindhealer. Perferably, today. Your nerve amazes me. Clearly, they don't teach respect here in these Weyrs. I'm /appalled/. If my father knew just what he was sending me to, he would've never thought twice and he would've /never/ talked with that Weaver-brat's parents."

Geloe has good timing, what can you say? Of course, the brownrider can't precisely get /in/ as there's a wherry in the doorway, so just settles for craning her neck and wondering - quite loudly - "What in Faranth's own sweet name is going on? And who needs a Mindhealer? I've got the best of timing.." Yes, 'Loe is a Mindhealer. Honestly. If you toddle over to the Healer Hall, they'll tell you as much reluctantly.

C'drel's presently trying to cover up another snicker, brought about by Puokano's speech to Drekyn. Alerted, he turns to spot Geloe's entrance, brightening. "'loe!" he calls, delightedly. "Oh, this poor lad here's been hearing voices--" he indicates Puokano with a nod, peering bemusedly at the wherry.

Drekyn beams. "Glad to have been of service, m'lord fourth-son-of-a-holder. If there's ever anything I can get for you, please don't hesitate to jump in the river, yes?" She turns towards Geloe, and blinks once or twice. "Duties to Azov?" Drekyn hazards, before nodding confirmation of C'drel's story. "And apparently I'm sick and mentally unstable -" that much is true, at least, "- and should be taught some manners. I have some free time next sevenday, I believe, though I'd have to check the roster." She sips from her klah mug, letting Drat gum a day-old meatroll into submission on the table nearby.

"I do not! I am not!" Puokano denies it all, glaring at C'drel as he speaks. "That woman needs help," he informs Geloe, expression brightening. "You're a healer? /Wonderful./" Maybe she'll be sane, too -- although that's more than Puo dares hope for. "Please go look at her? She's threatening to cut me up."

C'drel looks innocently at Puokano, "But that's what you were saying not long before. That, and that you don't walk, as well." He's only repeating what Puokano said, really. No matter it's out of context, now.

"Only because he won't walk out into the bowl so that Zatmenith can eat him, as he's so certain dragons like to do," says Drekyn levelly. "Apparently he's been sent here to get educated about weyrs - he's got some ways to go."

<*Zatmenith*> Privately, Zatmenith bespeaks you with << Yes, you are, >> proclaims the voice. << Or have you forgotten me already? I haven't gone away. You just aren't much of a conversationalist. >>

Geloe edges her way in about the two drudges and the dragon-snack, looking quite thoroughly amused. "Cam, /babe/! Most handsome of bronzeriders!" ... Apparently, she has to poke and prod sometimes, too. "Good Faranth, it's cold." She shivers then, slinking towards the hearth before pausing to blink at Drekyn - Forgetting something? Oh, yes. - "Ah. Azov's duties to Starmount, yadda. And aye, 'm a Healer. Specialize in Mindhealing, even. Hearing voices, can't walk? And you, bluerider, are sick and mentally unstable? Oh, good. I thought there was something *wrong*.." She moves, of course, to ruffles C'drel's hair before peering narrowly at Puokano. "Oh. A holdbrat. That would explain it."

Puokano gestures down at his legs. "I'm standing now, aren't I? I can walk if I want to. I'll prove it." He strides over to a new seat and flops down, arms crossed smugly. "I don't hear voices -- oh /shut up!/" Well, hmm. He disproves his point and resorts to sulking. "I'm not a brat," he tells the Mindhealer. "I'm the fourth son of Lord Boll, and I'm going to go home and get away from the cold and these crazy people. And I think there's some sort of mind-sickness that's spreading around in this Weyr. You might want to look into it."

"He'd like to go home," continues Drekyn, with an undertone that suggests that it's the one thing she approves of about Puokano, "but refuses to get on a dragon because - how did you put it? - he thinks that I would drop him *between* and wouldn't like to get anywhere near me in any case, because of my... dirty, smelly, stinky baby, I belive it was." She ruffles Drat's growing mop of hair, every inch the proud mother.

<*Seproth*> Privately, Seproth inserts another interesting thought into the 'voices', observing cheerfully, << You'd get along /so/ well with Mr. Fluffy. I know you would. I should take you home, with me.. If I dig you a pit in the ground, will you sleep in it? There's not room in our weyr.. >> Mr. Fluffy? Pit? It's safer not to even /wonder/.

C'drel flushes at Geloe's greeting, grinning sheepishly up at the brownrider, accepting the hair ruffling as if well used to it. "Mmm. Holdbrat," he agrees faintly. Another, darted look back to Puokano, "How's that message coming along, then? I presume you still wish to leave, that is, mindhealer or not. Mind, Geloe's one of the best--" well, she's probably the only mindhealer he knows offhand, but nevermind that.

C'drel, quite suddenly, /stares/ at Geloe, and coughs abruptly.
The wherry shuffles its feet, causing the nearer drudges to fling themselves underneath the table. All save those holding the rope, that is, who merely gibber and try to wedge themselves more firmly against immobile objects.

Faintly, Puokano stares off into space and mutters, "Mr. Fluffy?" He dismisses it with a shake of his head, and stares towards Geloe pleadingly. "It's happening again, and it won't stop unless I get away from this dreadful place. It's going to be an epidemic, soon, and people will start dying -- oh!" He starts. "I don't want to die."

"Makes you a minority of one," Drekyn mutters, stirring her klah. "Since you're the only one that seems to be affected, you'll probably be the first to go - any last words?" she says, probably a little more cheerfully than is absolutely necessary.

"He walks really well," Geloe agrees, folding her arms importantly and considering Puokano very seriously. Honest. "Huh. Well, why'd you come here in the first place? Well, maybe your father is a wise man and /made/ you come here, but surely you've heard tales of all the evils in weyrs?" She sounds hopeful, really. She can enlarge upon them. "And sure will, no problem. I'm sure it'll smooth out /really/ well." She just looks at Drekyn and smirks. "Now, whatever would give him that idea? Tsk. And babies /are/ smelly, but I'd bet marks that he was thrice as much, when he was that small. It carries over.." Then the smirk is turned on C'drel, pleasantly at the cough. "Oh, you sure it'll stop? Maybe it'll follow you.."

"Oh, no - Drat's not really that smelly, except when he hasn't had a change in a while. Come to think of it..." She sniffs, and wrinkles her nose. "Urgh, yes - it's about that time again. I'd better warn the drudges about this table when I go."

<*Seproth*> Privately, Seproth is gleefully psychotic, really he is. Or his lifemate is just sadistic, which is more likely of the two. << You're hearing *voi*ces, you're hearing *voi*ces.. >> And all said so cheerfully, too. << Mr. Fluffy'ld just love you to death, I'm sure. Do you like speculums? Mr. Fluffy likes speculums.. >>

C'drel shuffles feet slightly, looking sheepish. "I think he has heard all the tales, 'loe -- and no need to make it much worse, really." He knows her far too well. Lips twist, faintly, glance to the bowl. "Huh. Somebody's been spending far too much time with Dalventh, I think." Wincing at Drekyn's words, he edges away, just slightly.

"My father..fostered me." Why? Even Puokano doesn't know that. Probably so he'd gain maturity. Or something along those lines...although it obviously hasn't occured yet. "Weyr evils?" He gulps. "You mean it's worse than I've already seen?" He shakes his head quickly, then, denying, "This disease won't follow me. It's a Weyr-thing. Never happened before. Once I get out I'll be just fine. You'll see." He sniffs haughtily. "I was not smelly, either. I've never been smelly in my life." He slaps at his head, too. "I'm not hearing voices! I'm not hearing voices! And..what's a speculum?"

<*Zatmenith*> Privately, Zatmenith bespeaks you with << Oh, I know you're hearing me, >> comments the voice (or perhaps just /a/ voice, by now). << And I assure you, you /are/ smelly - I can smell you from here. A roll in some nice, warm snow generally does the trick, provided you dry off really well first. Otherwise it tends to stick. >>

C'drel goes abruptly pale at Puokano's question, staring at Geloe. "He didn't!" Bronzerider accuses, shaking head. "Really, now. Seproth shouldn't be teaching words like that to poor innocent Holder br--er, boys." Hastily rising, he snags mug of klah. "Uh.. if you'll all excuse me, I really must be uh.. going." Yes, make good your escape, now!

Drekyn nods an amiable farewell to C'drel, watching the fourth-son-of-a-holder with growing amusement.

C'drel heads offer to ruffle Geloe's hair in turn, the hurriedly makes his way out into the cold.
C'drel ducks down the tunnel to the Bowl.
C'drel has left.

Geloe wrinkles her nose faintly at Drekyn, adding, "My sympathies," before turning to bat eyelashes at C'drel. "But it'ld be so much /fun/, Cam, to traumatize him for life.. He'd be eternally greatful, because I might even drop some /truth/ into whatever I tell him. And yeah, Dalventh's a snazzy sort of lady, is the green." Ah, yes, someone keeps an ear open. "Aw. Bye Cam!" she calls after the retreating bronzerider before sprawling into his vacated seat. "And of course it is. You want to come with me to Azov? I'm sure you'd get along real well, there." It's a toothy smile, yes. "Riiight. Sure you won't. I'll have to make a side-trip at some point to meet your mother and ask her, and hear embarassing baby stories. And it's /denial/, lad. Denial. And speculums are the things a Healer sticks up a woman's certain bodily orifice, which I'm sure you'll never get anywhere near, to see if she's pregnant."

"Yes, I'd love to come to Azov." Someplace /warm./ Puokano pauses, then, and blushes. "Er. Maybe I don't." He goggles, too, at the Healer -- perhaps that was a bit more than he wanted to know. "I..I think I'm going to go roll around in the snow for a bit."

"Is /that/ what they're called?" Drekyn wonders, with interest. "I generally call them.. well, a lot of things that shouldn't reach the oh-so-tender ears of our fourth-son-of-a-holder here. Oh, if you're going out, do take the wherry with you, will you? I'm afraid that it'll make a mess in here, and it's making people nervous."

<*Seproth*> Privately, Seproth sing-sings helpfully, << Denial, denial. Then why are you talking to thin air, if you aren't hearing voices? Answer /that/. >> Pause. << And yes, that is what a speculum is. It's cheerful, >> he adds helpfully. << Oh, just keep your skin on. You'd think you'd been dropped in another world. >> Which isn't entirely untrue. << You /are/ hearing voices, by the way. >> In case he'd forgotten.

Puokano denies it all. He's quite good at that, really: "I'm /not/ hearing voices," he mutters, gritting teeth as he edges towards the Bowl. "I hate this place. I can't wait to get home - where people are treated nicely, and respectfully, and not threatened." And where people doesn't hear voices.

Geloe beams then lets it fade somewhat, and she sniffles. "You don't? What a loss." Then to Drekyn, she nods seriously. "Yes, speculums. They're very evil, I think. I avoid them at all costs, healer or not." Then she turns back to Puokano and /almost/ softens. Not quite. "Aw. You're just a little guy, I suppose. Still blush a lot. Have a lot of mental growing to do. And if you do go out, Seproth's just outside. I'm sure he wouldn't mind a snack of wherry, and holdbrat gives him indigestion, so you're safe. Have fun."

<*Zatmenith*> Privately, Zatmenith bespeaks you with << There isn't any warm snow here, >> the voice continues wistfully. << Not the proper kind. Here, if you get it warm it melts right away, and turns into water. That's no good at all. /Proper/ warm snow is at Azov. >> >>

<*Seproth*> Privately, Seproth points out dryly, dropping the facade of insanity, << People /are/ treated nicely and respectfully, and usually aren't threatened unless they act like you're acting. Poor little hatchling. >> Yes, that should go down well. Comparing the fourth-son with a hatchling.

Drekyn shudders. "/Cold/, too," she mutters, grimacing at the memory. "Ugh. Speculum is a good word for it, though I'd imagine it would sound nastier, wouldn't you?" She glances towards Puokano, and smirks. "Zatmenith isn't much on holderbrats, but I'm sure he'd make an exception in your case," she comments.

Puokano is quite near to tears, although he'd never admit it -- he munches extra-hard upon his lower lip and holds his head up high, subbornly. "I'm not a hatchling, either." Indignant, he tells the Mindhealer, "It's telling me I'm a hatchling. Ugh. One of those ugly, scrawny, disgusting things." Drekyn is just ignored, for the time being.

<< Almost as nice as snuggling with Irioth, >> agrees the blue, settling himself down onto a large, open patch of ground. << Or as nice as when my rider snuggles with Irioth's rider. That is nice, too. >>

"The 'it' you're referring to is a 'he', and also the adult variety of those 'ugly, scrawny, disgusting things." Okay, so Geloe can get very dry when hatchlings are insulted like so. Comes along with the job, I suppose. "And it's more of a.. you need to /learn/ as much as a new-hatched dragonet. Not that you look like or act like one. They're usually more polite, after Impressing." Then she turns to Drekyn, to shudder briefly. "Aye. That's what dolphins're nice for, though you don't have 'em here, poor folks. They /should/ be warmed first, I think. I still don't understand why they don't. And speculum just has a.. disturbing ring to it. It fits, yes."

"And Zatmenith was a good sight handsomer, I know," quips Drekyn. She winces - "I object more to the pregnancy itself than to the speculums, I suppose. Dolphins don't seem much better."

"Who's Irioth?" inquires the innocent Holderboy before he changes his mind and takes it back. "Er, nevermind. I don't want to know." Puokano switches directions and moves towards another exit. Who knows. Maybe those dragons would eat him or something if he went outside. Or, even worse, they might carry him off to that dreadful pit with Mr. Furry. Whoever -- whatever -- that is. "I think I'll be going now."

Drekyn peers suspiciously at the holderbrat. "My weyrmate's dragon," she comments. "Also, in his own words, Zatmenith's favorite snuggle-partner. You ought to get that head of yours looked at, m'lad. From the inside, preferably," she adds nastily.

"So was Seproth," agrees the brownrider, before quirking a one-sided grin. "I know. Isn't it horrid, really? Being pregnant, that is. Not being able to see your feet, back hurting all the time, sick over everything.." Geloe then turns to eye Puokano's retreat. "What's your name, kid? I'll have to look you up sometime, to be Mindhealerly." And to torment him further, of course. "And if you ever come to Azov.." Innocent. "Now blue - oh, it's Geloe, by the way - that isn't at all nice. Not that he didn't deserve it."

<*Seproth*> Privately, Seproth sniffles. << Aw. You aren't coming out this way? You aren't very nice. No wonder the humans're annoyed at you. You won't even bring us the wherry. >>

"Today isn't my day to be nice," shrugs Drekyn. "Pregnancy," she says, "Is /awful/. Bad. Badbadevilbad. Worse than anything you can imagine, except for possibly being in holderboy's company here."

"Ramaki!" yells the fourth son of so-and-so, helpfully borrowing his fostersister's name. "Be sure to come back soon, okay?" It's what she gets for abandoning Puo to the mercies of bloodthirsty riders and their dragons who are perhaps even more frightening.

"I thought that was your foster-sister's name," points out Drekyn helpfully. "You were calling her that when she was here a while ago."

Geloe holds up her hands, spreading her fingers and just giving Drekyn an eloquent look. "I don't have to imagine. I had two. Albeit at one time, but I never /ever/ want to go through that again. Though even brats can straighten up, if you harass 'em enough. Usually. They just take longer to get clues than most people." She cocks a brow, snickers, and adds, "I was going to say. Sounded awful feminine to me. Oh well. If I want to find you, I will. Have no fear." Name or no name. Brownrider's special like that.

<*Zatmenith*> Privately, Zatmenith sends a murmur of interest. << What /is/ your name, by the way? >>

Puokano quickly shakes his head as he flees. "No, no. That's Amuuki. You've got it all wrong. Maybe /you're/ the one who needs the Mindhealer." He gulps at Geloe, eyes both of them warily, and heads off into the bowels of the Weyr. Where they can't find him, hopefully.